


ain’t always broken, but here’s to hoping

by doespenguinsisgay



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Team USA Loss, World Juniors, proud of my silver medalists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 18:22:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doespenguinsisgay/pseuds/doespenguinsisgay
Summary: USA and Finland battle their hearts out, and after five goals and sixty minutes of grueling hockey, Finland takes the gold. Brady’s eyes instinctively seek out Quinn, and he can feel the heartbreak on his face, filling his whole body down to his fingertips. Brady wants to scale the glass and go to him, to hold him close and put his heart back together.(or, brady helps quinn cope with the loss against finland that costs them the gold medal)





	ain’t always broken, but here’s to hoping

**Author's Note:**

> psa if you or anyone you know is mentioned above please click away now, it’ll be better for everyone involved!!
> 
> hey bubs i’m back with more brady/quinn as a means of coping with this loss. still, i’m damn proud of those boys and i’m sure brady is too. i wrote this in only a few days, so i hope it will suffice. also: damn y’all want me to write angst but this is as close as ur gonna get for now :) i really wanted to post today. i hope you’ll enjoy, thanks for reading!
> 
> title from feeling whitney - post malone

Brady doesn’t know how he gets so lucky, when a stretch of about four days without any games and practices spaced out enough that he’s able to book his last minute ticket to Vancouver for a night and the next day without interfering with his schedule, but he does. In the early hours of the morning, after a grueling game against Minnesota that had ended in a loss on home ice, he’s boarding a plane in Ottawa, remembering to turn off his location on Snap Maps because he will be  _ damned _ if he lets Snapchat of all things ruin this semi-surprise he’s trying to pull off right now.

 

His muscles are stiff and his skin is tacky by the time he’s grabbing his luggage in rainy Vancouver. Cotton fills his ears and noise and rubs off on his eyelashes, dulling Brady’s senses as he drifts through the airport like the frail shell of a man. His body is aching for sleep, and if he checks into his hotel early enough, he’ll be able to catch a nap before the game. Perks of being a hockey player, having strings to pull in every hockey city hotel, to be able to check into a hotel hours earlier than the usual protocol. Let alone book the last available room at the city’s biggest event this year.

 

The game sticks in his mind as he climbs into the backseat of his Uber, greeting the driver with a groggy smile and putting in his headphones. Gold medal match, USA hockey is a fucking beaut. Last year, around this time, they’d been able to snag the bronze, but Brady stayed hungry for more as he turned 19 before the cutoff. From the looks of it, they seem just fine without him.

 

He’s grateful that he’s able to be here to support his country, his team, his closest friends from when they were all babyfaced tweens, getting involved in the NTDP. It’s like the cherry on top that his boyfriend is bearing the  _ A _ for the team, having earned it even more than anyone else. However, Brady acknowledges that he might be just a little bit biased. He knows Mikey is the most qualified for the captaincy, but Quinn fought tooth and nail for that  _ A. _ He’s damn proud of that kid.

 

It all passes by in a blur, thanking the driver and speaking to the woman at the front desk, trying not to stare at the stray curl lying against her forehead as she checks him in, blessedly only taking a few moments and opting for polite yet minimal small talk. He wonders if the exhaustion is smoothed across his face. In no time at all, he’s collapsing into cool, clean hotel sheets and letting sleep wash over him in one warm tidal wave. 

 

-

 

When Brady wakes, it’s hours later and he finally begins to feel human again as he regains an awake alertness that had long escaped him from the moment he had slipped into bed after the game against Minnesota. He stretches out under the heavy comforter, his joints popping in several places, but it feels good. His limbs feel looser, as he rolls out of bed to drag himself into the shower.

 

Under the scalding water, smothered by the steam and the generic hotel soaps, Brady lets himself unwind, lets his body relax after weeks of nonstop tension, in his back and in his jaw. All of the tightness in his muscles melts away, exiting through his fingertips. Ever since his return from Christmas break, he’s been feeling more stretched thin than usual.

 

He’s dressed and presentable before noon, so he goes to lunch at one of the joints down the road that he’s been to with Quinn when he had come to visit him in Vancouver, before he knew if he’d play in the show or if he’d go back to Michigan for the season. Brady is back in his hotel room within an hour and he’s already starting to feel restless, spending the rest of the day fiddling with his phone and entertaining himself with whatever daytime programs they’re showing on the hotel television.

 

He texts with Quinn some, because it’s hard not to, spamming him with memes he finds on Insta and dumb selfies on Snap, but he gets less and less prompt responses as he assumes Quinn gets deeper and deeper into his pregame routines. As he’s predictably on his way to the rink, Quinn calls him from his seat in the back of the bus, bundled up in his winter coat and stupid hat pulled low on his head, over his ears. He looks tired, even on the grainy screen of Brady’s phone.

 

“Hey, baby.” Brady greets, because Quinn has his earbuds in and his words are safe from the team’s prying ears for now. A pretty pink splays out over Quinn’s cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and Brady bites back a chirp because, seriously, they’ve been dating for how long? He kind of enjoys the fact that he still has his boyfriend whipped for him, hell he’s just as bad.

 

“Hey. How’s the grueling NHL life treating you, Mr. Four Days Off?” Quinn teases, shadows shifting over his face as the bus hurdles down the road, passing under overpasses. Brady rolls his eyes, sliding down so that he’s laying down, and gets comfortable. “I’m surprised you’re up and dressed. Tough game.” He speaks, low voice falling in time with the hum of the loud Coach engine, and Brady feels a wave of calm wash over him.

 

“Went to lunch with Chabby.” He lies, ignoring the comment on the Sens’ performance last night. It wasn’t backed by any intent, and Quinn understands. “You nervous about tonight?” Brady asks stupidly, because he already knows the answer. Still, Quinn bites his lip and glances out the window.

 

“Sure, but I’m trying not to think about it. Nothing I can do but wait it out.” He answers, surprisingly honestly. Brady nods. Quinn lowers his voice as he mumbles, “Can’t fuck this one up, Bray. After Canada- I don’t want that to happen to us.”

 

“You guys’ll be fine.  _ You’ll _ be fine, Quinny, you’re a beauty.” He tells him, fully confident in the team, in his boy, in his country. Quinn presses his lips together. “Seriously, babe, just go and play the game, you’ve been through this all before. I’ll be proud of you, no matter what happens.” Brady isn’t sure how much comfort his words will actually offer but he might as well do his best, tell him the truth. He knows what Quinn is hoping for, what  _ he _ would be hoping for in that situation. Still, it coaxes a small smile out of him, that still manages to make Brady’s heart flutter.

 

Before Quinn can respond, someone offscreen flops down into the seat beside him, elbowing him in the arm. A head pops into view, curly, tangled hair and familiar blue eyes, leaning against his shoulder.

 

“My best friend!” Josh gasps happily, trying to steal the phone from Quinn’s hands. Brady laughs at the offended expression on his boyfriend’s face, waving back at the screen. “Aw, Hughes, you know I’m just playing. I miss that big boy.” The bus jolts to a stop and the hum of the motor extinguishes.

 

“Shit, we gotta go, Bray. I’ll call you tonight.” Brady nods, scrubbing at his eye with his free hand. Josh is currently trying to poke the screen, and the volume of the background noise is growing quickly, as the boys wake the sleeping guys from their naps.

 

“Bye, Quinny, good luck. Love you.” Quinn’s eyes widen, glancing sideways at Josh, who is now wiggling his eyebrows at Quinn, uncomfortably close to his face. Quinn shoves at Josh’s cheek and mumbles a goodbye before hanging up. Brady just laughs, unbothered by it. He knows fully well that the consequence would have been brutal if he’d said it back, knowing Josh. Still, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t warm his heart when a text comes through, phone vibrating in his hand.

 

_ quinny <3: i love u too hun _

 

-

 

Brady gets a tight hug from Quinn’s mom when he meets them by their seats, Luke bouncing on his heels and calling the seat next to Brady. He offers up his fist for Brady to knock his knuckles against, looking like he definitely wants to make fun of the Michigan hoodie Brady is wearing under his coat, but ultimately keeps his mouth shut. Brady is grateful that if anyone recognizes him, they leave him be as the arena begins to fill up. He had to sign his fair share of autographs in the lines on the way in for a couple USA fans.

 

He’s more on edge than he should be when the team skates out for warm ups, but his heart pounds whenever Quinn turns his back, showing off the number 7 displayed proudly on the back of his jersey. Brady had been ecstatic when Quinn had mentioned taking his number for World Juniors, his number now and from the tournament last year, all shy and worried that Brady would for some reason refuse. Like he could refuse Quinn anything.

 

Brady’s been keeping up with the tournament, as much as he can on an NHL schedule. Team USA has been good, but damn, Finland has been killing it, and has been having some  _ serious _ puck luck. It makes the game even more of an unknown, and is causing his palms to sweat even more. Once the teams take to the benches and the starters lineup for puck drop, Brady can finally start to settle in, unable to tamp down the anxiety bubbling deep in his chest.

 

-

 

USA and Finland battle their hearts out, and after five goals and sixty minutes of grueling hockey, Finland takes the gold. As the game winner gets netted, Brady feels his stomach drop. The Americans hang their heads as the Fins celebrate the gold medal, the championship title, the glory that they now cradle in their palms, to bring back to their home country with their heads held high. Brady’s eyes instinctively seek out Quinn, and he can  _ feel _ the heartbreak on his face, filling his whole body down to his fingertips. Brady wants to scale the glass and go to him, to hold him close and put his heart back together. Instead, he just reaches across Luke to grip Mrs. Hughes’ hand in solidarity, hearts breaking as they watch their boys grieve openly on the ice.

 

The ceremonies feel like Brady is imagining them, floaty in a dreamy state that he wants to pinch himself out of. Some of the boys are crying, some hiding their faces behind their gloves or in their sweaters, but not Quinn. Brady keeps his eyes glued to him, watches as he stares blankly at the ice, falling apart behind a stoic, emotionless face. It’s miserable.

 

Finally-  _ God, _ finally- Brady follows the Hughes family back to the locker rooms, as the boys file off of the ice and down the tunnel, tails tucked between their legs. He pushes to the front of the crowd of fellow grieving parents with Luke, slinging an arm around the younger boy’s shoulders, tucking him into his side as the two of them stew in the ugly silence. Through the thick arena walls, the sounds of the Finnish locker room, shouts and howls and celebration. Inside the USA’s room, you could hear a pin drop. Brady knows how it feels, a similar atmosphere after they had lost the semi’s last year, stripped of the chance at a gold or silver completely. This year, though, he would imagine, stings even more. So much closer, yet not close enough.

 

Hastings’ muffled speech, then Mikey’s, can be heard through the doorway, but not clearly enough to be made out. Brady leans his head back against the brick wall of the hallway with Luke, closing his eyes. He’s itching to see Quinn, to take care of him as he heals.

 

After what feels like an eternity, the boys slowly begin to trickle out of the locker room. Luke wanders back to his parents when Josh comes out first, seeing Brady before he sees his family. He catches him in a wordless hug, grimacing on the pull back, and disappears back into the crowd. Brady understands.

 

Quinn is among the last of the guys to leave the room, sticking close to Mikey’s side as they let the door swing shut behind them. Brady sees him before he sees Brady, the Hughes’ catching Quinn first. Quinn hugs both of his parents, tugs Luke in too, his expression empty and unchanging. His mom whispers something to him as Brady pushes through the crowd, and just as Quinn whips his head around, he reaches the family.

 

“Oh, thank God,” Quinn’s voice breaks, already so small and fragile as he falls against Brady, his face shattering just before it disappears out of Brady’s view and is tucked into his neck, eyebrows tilted up and lip quivering. He just sobs quietly into Brady’s skin, shaking apart in his arms, anonymous in the somber, dismal crowd. Brady holds him flush against his body, doing his best to ground Quinn, to brush away the heartbreak with the drag of his hand up and down his spine, as comforting as he can muster. He turns his head, pressing his lips to Quinn’s temple, and whispers sweet nothings into his hair.

 

Brady catches Mrs. Hughes watching them carefully as she strokes Jack’s neck, and she just smiles sadly and nods approvingly. Over the years, she’s expressed her support, but something about her trust, in this moment of raw, unfiltered emotion, means so much more than everything else. It’s something he thinks about later, once Quinn has gone to sleep and Brady stays up on all of the adrenaline.

 

-

 

Quinn clings to Brady like an octopus, making it near impossible to wrestle him into an Uber after everyone has cleared out of the arena. Brady gives the driver the name of his own hotel, holding Quinn close in the backseat. The driver ignores the soft sounds of Quinn’s blubbering and just turns up the radio, and for that Brady is silently grateful. He makes sure to tip him well before they step onto the sidewalk and take the time to give him the five stars he deserves.

 

Back at the hotel, after shuffling Quinn through the deserted lobby, propping him against the elevator wall, and coaxing him into his hotel room, Brady sits back on the bed, letting Quinn collapse into his lap and cry and cry and cry. Part of him is grateful that Quinn is letting himself feel this, not burying the disappointment deep in his chest and boarding himself up in his dorm the second he escapes to Michigan, isolated from the rest of the world. The majority of his heart, however, is aching for his boy and the rest of the team.

 

Brady succeeds in bullying him into the shower, getting him leaning against the sink and slowly undressing him. His hands are gentle when he unbuttons Quinn’s shirt, dropping down to untie his sneakers, caressing as he unbuckles his belt. He lets Quinn do the rest, not wanting his attempt to be caring to border on the edge of patronization or pity. He climbs into the shower behind Quinn, after stripping down himself.

 

He washes Quinn’s hair, as his forehead rests against Brady’s shoulder, dragging his fingers over his scalp, hoping that he can offer some sliver of comfort. Hoping that with the soap and sweat that washes away over Quinn’s skin, down the drain, is some of that disappointment and heartbreak.

 

They climb between the cool hotel sheets after putting on cleaner, softer clothes, with damp hair and brushed teeth. Quinn has to borrow a hoodie from Brady and a pair of boxers, but it’s not like he wouldn’t have done so anyway. The tears have since stopped, now dried down his cheeks and staining his skin, eyes glossy and red, his lashes clumping together. He burrows into Brady’s side, letting his face press into his chest, staring blankly at the tacky hotel wallpaper. Finally, Brady breaks the silence, speaking into the silence of the room.

 

“I love you,” are the words he decides on, honest and simple. He means them, now more than ever, as he watches the love of life shatter apart and still put himself back together again, time and time again proving just how fucking strong he is. Brady loves him so much it makes his chest tighten up. Quinn doesn’t respond, but he wasn’t expecting him to. He just continues. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Quinn. I know you’re disappointed, but silver is still pretty fuckin’ baller, dude. You played your heart out, and this is gonna be the start of an insane career for you. Let yourself heal, but Jesus, babe, you should be proud of yourself.” Hands tighten where they’re clutching at Brady’s hoodie, shaky breaths being hauled in through Quinn’s nose.

 

“I just- if I’d been  _ better- _ we were so fucking close-“ Quinn mumbles, the first coherent words he’s managed all night, and it cracks Brady’s heart right down the middle. “It hurts, Bray, so bad. We fought for this and- and we couldn’t even get the gold. We let everyone down, I-“ His voice cracks, and he squeezes his eyes closed, his whole body tensing up. Brady makes gentle shushing noises, carding a hand through Quinn’s hair, watching it fall back into place.

 

“I know, baby, I know. But there’s no  _ I _ in this, it isn’t your fault that you lost. And you brought home silver, you didn’t let anyone down.” Brady urges, watching the muscles in Quinn’s jaw and face shift, his eyelashes shaking with every blink. He doesn’t say anything else, really out of things to say, but he supposes he doesn’t have to continue. All he can do now is hold Quinn as he heals, help him in picking up the fragments and coaxing him back together.

 

When he looks back down to once again offer the three words of comfort he’s been repeating all night, Quinn’s breathing has slowed and his face is slack with sleep, looking at peace for the first time all night. Brady’s heart pulls in several different directions, stretched taught in his chest, as he looks back up at the ceiling and sighs, his exhale slowly leaving his nose and pushing into the air above them.

 

They’ll be okay, the two of them, Quinn will soon heal. They’ve been through this grieving process all before, but this time Brady can be the support system that Quinn deserves, rather than himself having to deal with his own baggage as the failing captain of a team knocked out in the semifinals. Now, he can look in as an outsider and help Quinn bear the heartache without pushing any of his own back onto his already fragile shoulders.

 

Brady doesn’t often use the word  _ fragile _ when describing Quinn, because Quinn Hughes is all but fragile. He’s a warrior, strong and resilient, who will come back from the sting of this loss just like he comes back swinging from any other pain he has fought through in the past, the flame in his chest, behind his eyes, stronger and brighter than before.

 

In the moment, however, in the wake of all of the mourning that he feels crushed under, his heart  _ is _ fragile in Brady’s palms, as Quinn hands it over to him, trusting and loving, confident that Brady will take care of him like he always does. The fact that Quinn trusts him enough to be here with him, rather than pushing him away like he would any other person, it tugs heavy on Brady’s conscience. And, fuck, if he won’t prove to Quinn that this isn’t a mistake, that he is to be trusted. It’s all he cares about in this moment, making sure that Quinn is taken care of, that he doesn’t have to heal from this alone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i have a tumblr! come yell at me abt hockey boys [here](http://starryandersen.tumblr.com)


End file.
